I might not be here
by Snurtz
Summary: A 'sequel' to Mark Hides in His Work. Maureen and Joanne decide to move back to NYC after living in Chicago for four months, but are shocked by what they find when they come back to the loft.
1. Unexpected

DISCLAIMER: Obviously, I do not own the characters in this story. It's a FANFICTION!

* * *

Chicago is nothing like New York City. Sure, it's got crappy piles of wood and nails for houses, and taxis, and hobos. But it doesn't have Alphabet City.

I needed to go back. I missed it too much. I told Joanne about it, and at first she refused to even consider moving back.

"What's the point?" she'd asked me. Who do we have to come back to?"

Those words stung. It was a cold reminder of how we had lost four of our dearest friends—Angel, then Mimi, then Collins, and only four months ago, we lost Roger. Benny was gone from our lives. But there was still Mark; surely he would let us stay at the loft.

"We have Mark," I had told her. "Maybe Mark needs some friends, too. Ever think of Mark?"

"He doesn't even talk to anyone anymore, Maureen, and you know that!" she retorted, pointing her finger at me.

"Can't we try?" I pleaded. "Please, Pookie?"

Joanne gave in.

I called Mark for the first time that night since we'd moved.

"SPEAK," said two voices on the other end of the line. I guessed he hadn't bothered to change the answering machine since Roger died. Hearing Roger's voice struck me dumb for a moment. Then I remembered that I was on the phone.

"Hey, Mark, it's Maureen," I started out. "Are you there? 'Cause if you are—"

"Hello?" said an unfamiliar voice.

"Mark?" I said, baffled.

"Hi, Maureen," he said. I realized why I didn't recognize his voice. It was flat, monotone, lifeless.

"Uh, Mark, hey. How… how's it going?" I asked tentatively, instantly regretting the question.

"I'm fine," he said in the same flat voice.

"Well, Mark, um, I called because… because I wanted to ask you something," I said.

"Shoot," he replied.

I took in a deep breath, not exactly sure what to say.

"Mark, I want to come home," I finally blurted out in one breath.

There was silence on the other end.

"I miss Alphabet City, Mark, I miss New York. I need to come back."

More silence.

"Joanne said to call. She was wondering if… well, if we could stay at the loft, if we came back."

Finally, Mark spoke. "I might not be here," he said.

Something about that one sentence made me feel funny inside, like someone had yanked my stomach down to my knees and let it fly back up like those maps they use in high school history class.

"What do you mean?" I asked. "Will you be working or something?"

"Maybe," he replied flatly.

"Well… can we come?" I asked again, hoping beyond hope that he would say yes.

"I'll see you in a couple weeks," he said.

A huge grin grew across my face. "Oh, thanks so much, Mark, I can't wait—"

_Click._

Exactly seven days later, Joanne and I found ourselves once again in Alphabet City. It was uglier than I remembered: beer cans in the streets, cigarettes only half-smoked thrown in gutters, and overflowing trash cans. But it was still home sweet home.

Joanne and I lugged our suitcases up the stairs slowly, somehow feeling that what we were doing was ceremonial and solemn. There was obviously someone new living in Mimi's apartment. I heard laughter coming from her door, joyous and carefree. I stared at that door for a long time, wishing that I could go in there and find Mimi and maybe even Roger, having a good time just because they could.

"Maureen, let's go," said Joanne impatiently behind me. I snapped out of it and continued up the stairs, halting in front of Mark and Roger's door.

Mark's door. Not Mark and Roger's door.

I grabbed the side of the door as well as I could with a suitcase already in my hand, then pulled it, backing in while pushing it all the way open.

"We're here, Mark!" I said in a false cheerful voice.

Just then, Joanne bowled me over, shouting, "Mark! Oh my God, Mark!" I whirled around to see what was wrong and let out a scream.

There was Mark, a rope around his neck, the other end tied to a rafter. His feet dangled above the ground by almost two feet. He was still struggling to get oxygen, making no noise, but his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish's. His diaphragm was contracting wildly, trying to pull some air in, but making him jerk around in the process. His eyes were closed, and his hands were limp at his sides.

Joanne ran over and grabbed his legs. Pushing them up, she shouted, "Maureen! Get him down!"

I dropped my suitcases and ran inside, snatching a chair and placing it by Mark's feet. I jumped onto it and loosened the noose around his neck. I held him tight with one arm as I pulled the rope off his head. Joanne and I slowly lowered him to the ground as he began to gasp for air, making a sick, grating noise. We carried him to the couch and laid him down.

After a few minutes, Mark's gasps became less panicked and more normal. He began to cough hoarse, feeble coughs. Finally, he opened his eyes. When he saw my face, he abruptly stopped coughing and just stared at me with sunken, haunted eyes, looking at me in a way I had never seen him do before. His glasses were missing, and a purple bruise was developing on his neck.

"Joanne, get him some water," I said, watching Mark intently as his eyes closed again. I wiped the sweat off his face with the end of my scarf and pushed his unkempt hair off his forehead. Joanne appeared with a glass of water just then. She set it on the coffee table and helped me to get him upright, propping him up with pillows. I brought the glass to his lips and let a little bit of water go into his mouth. He tried to swallow and instead made a retching noise and spit it up.

"Stop, he wheezed, his voice barely audible. I could hear the defeat in his voice and it sent a chill down my spine. I put my hand on his forehead. He was damp and cold, not to mention shaking uncontrollably. He reached up and took my hand, then let it slide down his shoulder and his side. I felt the bones in his arm and shoulder too easily through his shirt and skin. His ribs stuck out too much to be healthy. I looked to Joanne, and she knew exactly what I was thinking.

"Mark, can you breathe okay, honey?" I asked gently, moving the pillows and helping him lay back down again.

"Why did you do that?" he asked me, disregarding my question.

"Do what?" I asked, confused.

"Why'd you take me down?" he said, his voice getting stronger. "I was so close, so close…"

"Mark, why are you trying to kill yourself?" asked Joanne, cutting straight to it.

Mark let out a quiet chuckle. "Why am I trying to kill myself?" he said sarcastically. "Why shouldn't I? What is there to live for anymore?"

Joanne began to cry, and I could feel the tears welling up in my own eyes. I smelled alcohol on Mark's breath and realized he was drunk. Mark never got drunk. What had happened to him?

"Mark, don't you know who it is? It's me, Maureen," I said, stroking his hair. "And Joanne. We came back, don't you remember? We said we were coming back."

"You weren't supposed to show up for another week," he said, his words slurring, a vague grin on his lips.

"Is that what you wanted us to find?" I cried, the tears finally falling down my cheeks. "You, hanging from the ceiling by your neck, dead?" I got up and stood over him, watching him chuckle to himself drunkenly.

Mark stopped laughing and slowly opened his eyes. He pushed himself up, breathing in short little gasps, and looked me straight in the eyes.

"Yes, Maureen," he whispered. "Dead."

This wasn't the Mark I knew. The Mark I knew never got drunk, was usually happy, always trying to avoid the fight. I couldn't take it anymore. I ran out of the room, crying quietly, wishing none of this had ever happened. I wished Angel hadn't died. I wished Mimi and Collins hadn't died. I really wished that Roger hadn't died and left Mark alone. I wished that Mark hadn't gone off the deep end, trying to starve himself and then trying to hang himself.

I stood outside the loft for a long time, trying to compose myself. I finally stopped crying and walked back in, carrying in my suitcases and sliding the door shut behind me. The rope was still hanging from the rafter in the middle of the room, like a threat waiting to be carried out. I turned away from it and walked to my old room from at least six years ago. I dumped my things on the bare bed and walked back out to the main room. Joanne was kneeling beside Mark's thin frame, absentmindedly stroking his skeletal hand. She turned to me with a sad smile on her face.

"He passed out," she told me. "He's incredibly drunk. I don't know what he was drinking, but he didn't drink it here."

I walked over to the refrigerator and opened it up. There was absolutely nothing inside, not even an old carton of milk. I opened up all of the cabinets, one by one. They were all empty. There wasn't a speck of food anywhere. I looked to Joanne, and she looked down at her hands, still stroking Mark's.

"I'm guessing he hasn't eaten for days, maybe even a week or two," she said. "We're going to have to take care of him. Thank God we got here when we did."

I nodded, trying to swallow down the lump in my throat. Joanne got up and grabbed her purse from next to the chair I had used to stand on fifteen minutes before.

"I'm going to go get some food," she said, heading out the door. "Watch him, Maureen. I don't want him left alone."

I nodded again as I watched her leave. When she had disappeared from sight, I walked over to the couch. I gently lifted Mark's head and sat down, placing his head on my lap. I stayed there for a long time, stroking his hair and listening to his shallow, wheezing breaths, just glad he was alive.


	2. Look me in the eye

"Morning, Maureen."

My eyes snapped open. I looked around, disoriented. Remembering that I was in the loft, I sat up quickly, suddenly realizing that I had fallen asleep while I was supposed to be watching Mark. He smiled at me in a sick, empty way and sat up on the couch.

"Fall asleep on the job?" he said, looking around for his glasses. I got up from my chair and found then on the floor by the doorway.

"Morning, Mark," I said, handing them to him. "How're you feeling?"

Mark leaned back and put his hand on his forehead, then his throat, wincing as he touched the dark bruise that had formed there.

"I've been better," he commented, pulling his legs up and crossing them Indian-style. "I've got a killer headache."

"Well, if you hadn't gotten so drunk last night, maybe you wouldn't feel so horrible," said Joanne, making her presence at the table known. "And it would help if you'd eaten something in the past week, too."

"I don't have any food," said Mark coolly, completely unfazed by Joanne's accusation.

"Well, you have food now," said Joanne. "I bought some last night."

Mark opened his mouth to say something, and then shut it again and looked down at his feet.

"I'm not eating," he said quietly to his lap.

I looked at him compassionately, not exactly sure why I felt so bad for him when he was obviously being stubborn. Joanne walked over with a glass of water, holding it out for Mark to take. When he didn't acknowledge her presence, she handed the glass to me and said, "Mark, you can refuse to eat for now, but you can't go without drinking. Please, just take it."

I moved from my chair to the couch, sitting next to him and holding out the glass of water.

"Please, Mark, just take it," I pleaded, putting my arm around him. "It's just a glass of water."

Mark gave in and took the glass. Looking indifferently at Joanne and me, he drank it, swallowing with difficulty. Joanne smiled triumphantly and hopped up, heading for the refrigerator.

"What would you like to eat?" she said, opening the now-stocked fridge. Mark took one glance at the food and a horrified look passed over his face. He quickly composed himself, but not before I noticed him look where his noose had been before Joanne and I had taken it down. He looked back down and began to make patterns on his legs with his index finger.

"I'm not eating," he repeated firmly.

I rolled my eyes and took him by the shoulders. "Look, Mark," I said. "You aren't going to do this to yourself while Joanne and I are here. You're not alone anymore. We're here to stay."

"I can do what I want," he replied, avoiding my gaze.

"No, Mark, we're not giving you that choice," said Joanne. "We found you trying to _hang_ yourself, Mark! We haven't even called a doctor yet, and I'm sure—"

"Don't you _dare_ call a doctor," he interrupted, the flatness in his voice cracking slightly.

"Well then, you're going to have to eat," said Joanne, crossing her arms.

A spasm of anger crossed Mark's face.

"I'll eat," he said, defeated.

"Promise?" I said.

He didn't reply.

"Mark," I warned. "Look me in the eye and tell me—"

"Don't say that!" he shouted suddenly, jumping up and backing away.

Startled and confused at his sudden change in behavior, I asked, "What did I do?"

"You can't say that!" he shouted, pointing a shaking finger at me.

"What, look me in the—"

"Yes, that!" he said, getting emotional for the first time that I had ever seen. "You can't say that!"

"What? Why—"

"He was right there!" he cried, gesturing to the couch. He was sitting right there, and he asked me that! He told me to – to look him in the eye and tell him that he wasn't going to – going to—"

"To die?" finished Joanne quietly.

"Yes!" he cried out. "Die! Just like Angel, and Collins, and Mimi! They all died!"

"I'm sorry, Mark," I said meekly.

He looked at me in disbelief and sudden anger. "You're sorry? Sorry for what?" he spat, shaking and backing up. "Sorry that they died? Sorry that you're still here, maybe? Or – maybe you're sorry you found me," he finished in a hushed tone.

Joanne and I stared at him, stricken. Mark took it as the wrong meaning and threw his thin arms up in the air, cursing. He ran for the door, pushing weakly against it and just getting it open enough for his small frame to fit through.

"Wait! Mark! It's freezing out there!" cried Joanne, running after him. I followed and somehow passed her, chasing him as he stumbled down the stairs faster than I though he could. We followed him out the door of that decrepit building. I felt a blast of cold air the second I ran out the door; it almost knocked the air out of me, but I refused to let it stop me and continued after Mark.

"He hasn't eaten in days, he can't keep this up for much longer!" shouted Joanne behind me. However, Mark continued on as fast as before, not giving in, even though he was hugging himself in an attempt to keep warm.

"Mark!" I cried, trying not to trip and fall over the garbage in the streets. "Mark! Stop! Please!"

He ignored my pleadings and continued on, but slowing down. I was almost to him when he collapsed, crumpling to the ground and smashing into the sidewalk. His glasses went flying into the street and were instantly run over by a passing taxi. I ran as fast as I could to him and knelt down by his side, not exactly sure what to do. Joanne caught up a few seconds later and knelt down on the other side of him.

"Let's get him back to the loft," said Joanne, grabbing his left arm and swinging it around her neck. I took his other arm and together we hoisted him up to his feet.

"Don't touch me," he mumbled, feebly trying to push us away but walking with us all the same. He was shivering like mad; it must have been below zero out there. I had somehow managed to grab my coat on the way out the door, and now I draped it over Mark's shoulders, letting his arms fall to his sides and holding him upright around his middle. He was slowly regaining the ability to at least stumble by the time we reached his building so that Joanne could hold open the doors for us. Nonetheless he was still leaning on me heavily and making it difficult and awkward to get up the stairs.

We walked in the door and Mark instantly slid to the floor, completely depleted of any energy he possessed. I said, "Honey, let's just make it to—"

"Let him stay there," interrupted Joanne, bringing over a pillow and a spare blanket from the couch. He gratefully accepted them and leaned his head against the door, still shivering.

Suddenly, Mark burst into tears. Not great big sobs, just quiet tears that slid down his face and collected on the floor below him. I was shocked and scared; I had never seen Mark cry before, not even when I had lived in the loft years ago, not even when I was dating him. I drew away from him slightly without thinking, not sure what I was supposed to do. He grabbed my arm and pulled me back, almost knocking me over, and buried his head into my shoulder, sobbing. My stomach flipped in a strange way, maybe in surprise. I looked to Joanne helplessly, and she gestured a hug. Taking the hint, I put my arms around him and let him cry. Joanne knelt down behind him and put her hand on his back, rubbing it absentmindedly.

After a long while, Mark suddenly spoke into my shoulder.

"Don't leave me alone," he said. I drew back and put my hands on his face, looking him in the eyes.

"I won't," I promised. "_We _won't."

Mark turned to look behind him, where Joanne was kneeling. She smiled tremblingly and nodded in agreement. A flicker of a smile passed over his face, and then he turned back to me. He looked like a little kid, sniffling, his face all pink and wet with tears. I looked at him compassionately and wiped a falling tear off his cheek. He looked at me in a strange way that I couldn't identify, but I couldn't help feeling that he had looked at me like that before somewhere.

"Come on, let's get off this floor," said Joanne suddenly, standing up and holding out a hand for Mark. He took it and she hoisted him off the floor, catching him as he stumbled forward.

"I'll fix you something to eat," she continued, helping him to the couch. I got up and followed, suddenly feeling unneeded.

"You want some toast or something?" I asked, trying to be helpful. "It's still breakfast time, you know."

Mark looked down for a few moments. Then he looked up at me, somehow looking defeated, hopeful, and something else at the same time.

"Sure," he said. "Toast is good."


	3. It's a flu

DISCLAIMER: Obviously, I do not own the characters in this story. It's a FANFICTION!

* * *

After breakfast, I let Mark lay down while Joanne and I cleaned the loft. The place was a pigsty; clothes and film equipment everywhere, dirty dishes piled up from months ago, and dust all over the place. What had he been doing for four months?

Joanne took care of most of the cleaning. I slowly picked up Mark's film equipment, my mind off elsewhere. I had never been too good with responsibilities.

"Maureen? Maureen, come here," came Joanne's voice from the bathroom.

"What is it?" I asked, running in. She was kneeling over the trash bin, peering into it apprehensively. I knelt down beside her and looked inside.

"I don't see anything," I said. She shook her head and wordlessly reached into the bin, pulled out a small plastic bag, and handed it to me.

"Look familiar?"

I stared at the little empty bag and then looked out the door to the couch, where Mark was sleeping peacefully. I looked back to the bag and shook my head, grinning.

"It could be anything, Pookie," I said, tossing it back into the trash bin. "It probably had buttons in it, or something."

Joanne was a woman of reason. She shrugged halfheartedly and said, "You're probably right. I shouldn't worry. Mark wouldn't do anything like that, anyway." She got up and emptied the trash into a large trash bag. I got up a moment later, lost in thought.

Mark would never do anything like that.

…Would he?

That night, Mark was looking paler than usual. I was a little worried, but Joanne reasoned that it was probably nothing serious. I couldn't help thinking about the little bag we had found. What if Mark didn't have just a cold, as he insisted?

He looked really uncomfortable as he went to bed. I watched him trudge to his room, wrapped in a blanket, even though he was visibly sweating. Joanne noticed, too. She put down her book and hopped up, catching up with him and wrapping her arm around his shoulders.

"Are you okay, Mark?" she asked. "You don't look so good."

"Bad cold," he said, shrugging her arm off.

"…Okay."

He walked to into his room and closed the door. Joanne turned to me and gave me a meaningful look.

"He said he had a cold," I said. I didn't want to believe anything else.

Joanne crossed her arms. "All of a sudden?"

I shrugged. "Maybe."

I woke up that night to a siren. I looked at my clock. 2:35.

_Might as well pee while I'm up,_ I thought. I pulled off my covers and got out of bed, careful not to wake Joanne as I left the room. I stumbled to the bathroom, half-asleep, and flicked on the light. I stifled a shout when I caught sight of Mark sitting on the closed lid of the toilet. His head was on his knees, and he was doubled over in apparent pain.

I knelt next to him and put my hand on his forehead. He was sweating, but he didn't have a fever. I took him by the shoulders and said his name softly. He looked up, unable to focus on my face without his glasses.

"Maureen, I'm gonna puke," he said in an urgent whisper. I backed away and he retched, but didn't vomit.

"I'm going to get Joanne," I said, backing out the door.

"Don't!" he cried. "It's just… just a cold…"

"People don't throw up when they have a cold," I argued.

"Well, the flu then! I'm fine, now leave—" he stopped mid-sentence and retched again, this time losing everything he'd eaten that day. I panicked and ran to get Joanne.

"Joanne, wake up!" I shouted. She jumped up, startled out of sleep.

"What is it, Maureen?" she yawned.

"Mark's sick!" I said, wringing my hands. "He just puked all over the bathroom!"

Joanne got out of bed quickly and pulled on some sweatpants. "Don't you know how to take care of sick people?" she asked me in an exasperated tone.

"No…" I said sheepishly as she ran by me. I followed her into the bathroom and stood in the doorway as she cleaned the floor with a bunch of paper towels. Mark started dry heaving and Joanne got out of his way. He doubled over again, groaning. Joanne helped him to the now-clean floor and lifted up the toilet lid.

"If you have to throw up again, throw up in there," she directed him, pointing to the toilet. He nodded weakly and leaned up against the sink, shivering. Joanne busied herself with retrieving a blanket from Mark's room.

"I told you not to wake her," he said, panting. "It's just a flu."

"I don't know about that, Mark."

He looked up at me with a fake grin. "What else could it be, then?" he said in a mocking tone, daring me to say it. I blinked, not sure how to respond. He chuckled, then suddenly leaned over the toilet and retched. I winced; I'd never been good around vomit. Joanne returned with a blanket and draped it over Mark's shoulders, and then started to rub his back. He shrugged her off and sat on the floor, tears streaming down his face.

"You okay, Mark?" I asked, noticing the tears. He smiled weakly.

"It's automatic," he said, wiping them away. "God, I haven't puked since I was seven."

"Are you going to be okay for tonight?" asked Joanne.

Mark nodded. "Get some sleep," he said. "I can take care of myself." He looked me straight in the eye, a remarkable feat without his glasses. "It's only a flu."

Joanne reluctantly left the bathroom. I followed, stealing one last glance at Mark, who was back over the toilet.

"Do you think…" I whispered to Joanne as we headed back to our room. "Do you think it's—"

"He said it's a flu," she said firmly. "Maybe it is. All the same, we're taking him to the doctor in the morning if he's still sick."

I nodded. "He's not going to go for that," I warned. She shrugged and got back into bed.

"He doesn't want to be left, alone," she reminded me. "He's going to have to do what we say until he's back to himself again." She closed her eyes without another word.

I laid down and tried to sleep, but I couldn't. I thought of the little bag we had found earlier, and my words came back to me.

_What if it's…_

What if it's withdrawal?


	4. The one of us to survive

**A/N: Okay, I've FINALLY updated! I can't believe it took me three whole days to write this. But it was really hard to write! Thanks to the (very few) people who reviewed.**

**I have a reply for Sargent Snarky, I already replied in private but she made such good points I thought that everyone should know, right?**

**1) ff dot net must be responsible for typos. I fix my typos. ;)**

**2) You're right. His throat and vocal cords would be bruised from hanging himself. I tried to incorporate that (rasped, whispered, etc.) but it's kind of boring to hear about how his throat hurts over and over and over again, so I kept it to a minimum. Just know that his voice is very hoarse right now.**

**3) Okay, well yes. Mark would be craving the drug IF he was withdrawal ridden, as you put it. But Mark is pretty good at hiding his feelings at other times... right? So maybe this is one of those times. (that was just to cover my butt. wink) SIDE NOTE about that, that everyone should know before they read... There's a lot of other stuff I wanted to put in here but there was no room for it to fit in. It would be too tacky. So when Mark says, "I didn't... I tried..." I'll tell you what he was going to say there but didn't. Cause you should know, otherwise it sounds TACKY. But at the END so I don't ruin the plot for this chapter.  
**

**

* * *

**

"It's not the flu."

"What's wrong with him, then?" I asked the doctor, glancing over at a very irritated and very pale Mark.

"I can't know for sure. However, everything seems to point to—"

"Is he actually _sick_?" said Joanne impatiently.

"Well, he's obviously _sick_," replied the doctor. "But if you mean a virus or something, I say no."

Mark glared at the doctor with sunken eyes. He was looking worse than he had the night before, so Joanne and I had forced him to go to a doctor. He had insisted that it was the flu all the way up till now, and we had proved him wrong.

"He refuses to remove his jacket or roll up his sleeves, so I can't check for any marks on his arms," the doctor whispered to Joanne and me. "But I'm pretty sure you're right, Miss Jefferson; it probably is withdrawal."

Joanne and I exchanged a worried look. The doctor made it all seem so trivial, so easy to explain. He didn't know that Mark was supposed to be the one who never did these things. Mark most addictive drug was supposed to be his camera, not heroin.

"The only thing you can do for him is let him rest and keep him hydrated," continued the doctor.

"Thank you," Joanne said. She shook his hand and helped Mark off the examining table and out the door. I started to follow when the doctor pulled me aside.

"For sure, you've noticed how thin Mark is, too," he said to me.

"Yes, why?"

"Make sure he eats after his symptoms lessen a little."

"No problem."

"One more question for you, Miss Johnson."

"Yeah?"

"The bruise on his neck. Do you know how he got it?"

I stared at him for a second, contemplating whether or not I should tell him what Mark did. I felt a surge of strange feelings that made me want to protect him. I pulled myself a little taller and looked him straight in the eye.

"Yes, I do," I said. "Why?"

"Because it looks like ligature marks. Did Mark recently try to commit suicide, by any chance?"

With that, I whirled around and left the room. The doctor followed me out, calling my name.

"Thank you, Doctor, for your help," I said over my shoulder.

"Miss Johnson, wait—"

And then I was gone.

-----

"Please, Mark, just let me see," Joanne begged. "Just roll up your sleeves."

"Can't I just lie down in peace?" Mark whispered, his eyes closed. He was lying on the couch, and he was very irritated with us both. He had puked again in the taxi on the way back, and now that we knew it wasn't the flu, he couldn't lie anymore. He could only hide the truth.

I knelt down next to him and tried to take his hand, but he pulled it away. "Please, P-Mark. We only want to help," I said. I looked up at Joanne, mortified. Had she noticed that I'd almost called Mark Pookie?

She hadn't. She was heading for the telephone. Mark followed her with an apprehensive eye.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Well, since you're not cooperating with me, I'm just going to have to call you in," Joanne said loftily.

Mark's eyes widened in an almost comical way. "You wouldn't."

"Wanna try me?"

Mark was seething now. He stared at Joanne, and she stared back. I looked back and forth between them, feeling uncomfortable. We all sat in silence for what seemed like hours, no one budging.

Finally, Mark gave in. He sat up slowly, pausing for a violent fit of shivering. He slowly pulled up one sleeve, then the other, and stuck his arms out, staring down at his lap. I looked at his arms then back at him, confused.

"Joanne, there's no marks," I said, waving her over. She walked to the couch and studied his arms, finding nothing. We both looked back up to him, and he smiled smugly.

"What'd you expect?" he said, rolling his sleeves back down.

"Why didn't you let the doctor—"

"Just felt like being difficult." He sniffed and wiped his nose with his sleeve, submitting to another shivering fit. "Now leave me alone," he whispered, laying back down and turning away from us.

Joanne narrowed her eyes and took a step forward, crossing her arms.

"Mark, get up."

"Shut up, Joanne. Leave me alone."

"Mark. Get. Up."

"No."

"Mark, look me in the eyes!" Joanne shouted, throwing her arms out to the sides. I winced. Joanne never shouted… ever. At the same time, Mark turned around so fast that he almost fell off the couch.

"Don't say that!" he shouted. I looked to Joanne. Her eyes were just narrow slits now.

"Did you snort it?" she asked, point-blank.

Mark blinked, the suddenly leaned forward and threw up.

"Joanne!" I cried, jumping up and wrapping my arms around his middle. He retched a few more times, and then slumped forward into my arms, shaking. I pulled him closer and he rested his head on my shoulder, clutching his throat and wheezing painfully.

"Well?" said Joanne mercilessly.

"I think we know the answer!" I shot at her. Mark coughed feebly and nodded in agreement.

"Mark, why would you do that?" I whispered, pulling him up to look at me.

He put a shaking hand to his head. "I can't do this," he rasped, pushing me away.

"Can't do what?" I said, confused.

"I didn't… I tried… I need a fix!" he cried. He ran into his room and slammed the door. Joanne and I ran over.

"Mark, what are you doing in there?" she said carefully.

There was no reply, but I heard things crashing around inside. Joanne turned the knob and the door opened, much to our surprise. Mark was holding a book in his hands. He flipped it open and a little bag fell out.

"No, Mark!" Joanne shouted, diving for the bag. She snatched it up and stuffed it in her pocket. Mark lunged at it. She grabbed his hands and held them away from her body, struggling as he tried desperately to get the little bag.

"Mark, stop, please!" I cried, scared. He had a wild look in his eyes that was only accentuated by his messy hair and uncontrollable shaking. He looked completely insane.

"Give it!" he snarled at Joanne, ignoring me.

"Mark!" I pleaded, joining Joanne in trying to push him off. He shoved me out of the way. I grabbed his arm, pulled him toward me, and smacked him in the face as hard as I could. He fell to the floor with a grunt.

Time seemed to slow down as Mark brought his hand to his face in utter shock. In the sudden silence, the only thing to be heard was the heavy breathing of all three of us. I had never hit Mark before. My hand tingled from the impact, and an angry red handprint was clearly visible on Mark's cheek. His eyes turned onto my face. They were filled with such shock and confusion that I had to turn away before I cried. Joanne stared at me, then Mark, then me again. I avoided both their eyes by staring at the wall.

"Maureen…" started Mark, his voice now gentle and cautious. "Maureen?"

"Yeah?"

"Mo, I'm sorry."

"No, you're not."

"I'm sorry, Maureen, c'mon. Please."

I turned to look at him. "Mark, I didn't come back from Chicago because I missed New York City. It wasn't because I missed protesting, or the Life Café, or any of that. I missed _you_."

Mark stared at me, speechless.

"I wanted something _normal_, Mark!" I continued. "I wanted to have something that made it feel like maybe… maybe someone had _survived_ out of all of us. Don't you see? Benny disappeared when he married that stupid Muffy! Then Angel died, then not even four months later, Mimi died too! Then Collins was gone all of a sudden. When Roger died, I couldn't handle it! That's why I left! You're the one of us to survive, Mark!"

Mark blinked stupidly, still rubbing his cheek where I had slapped him. He looked like a lost little boy, but at the same time he looked as worn as a soldier returned from a long, bloody war.

"I don't know what else to say, Maureen," he finally said. "I'm sorry."

I was at a loss for words. I wanted to be mad, to stay mad, but I couldn't. He was truly sorry. He just looked so pathetic, so lost. I looked to Joanne for inspiration, but she was gone.

Mark looked up at me meekly and pulled his knees up.

"Please say something," he whispered.

I fell to my knees and crawled next to him on the floor. He watched my every move, cautious. I sat down and pulled my knees up, too, searching for the words to say.

I turned to face him and found that he was looking at me with sparkling blue eyes, and suddenly, I found my lips on his. He smelled like puke, and I didn't care. I broke away quickly, frightened.

"M-Maureen?" Mark said, obviously shocked out of his wits.

I stood up, wide-eyed, and backed away. Mark stood up too and took a step toward me. I ran out the door of Mark's room, then out of the loft.

"Maureen, wait!" I heard Mark plead behind me.

"What happened, Maureen?" Joanne called after me. I ignored them both and dashed down the stairs and out of the building, then kept on going, my feet pounding on the sidewalk and taking me somewhere on autopilot. My mind was racing a mile a minute.

What had I just done?

* * *

**Okay, anyways. So Mark was saying, "I didn't... I tried..." It was, "I didn't want you to find out," and "I tried to stop but I couldn't."**

**PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE! REVIEW! I live for getting reviews and when I only get coughTWOcough reviews on a chapter I get pretty sad. Thanks 3**


	5. Mimi

**A/N: I know, I know. I haven't updated this in... years. Well, a year. Or two. Sorry. I found this in my fanfic notebook yesterday and I typed it up! And chapter 6 was in the works when I stopped writing. So... I'll get on that. ;)**

* * *

I sat down in the nearest seat of the Life Cafe and buried my face in my hands. I had just done something I never thought I'd do again: I'd kissed Mark. Why would I do something like that? Was I really such a slut that I couldn't help myself?

"You okay, honey?"

I looked up to see a young waitress to my left, her little booklet in hand. She was pretty - tall, blonde, blue eyes. I felt a pang of grief as I read her name tag; it said Mimi.

Mimi sat down across from me and set down her pad of paper. She looked around carefully and then leaned forward.

"You're not here to eat, are you?" she asked gently.

"Don't you have other tables to wait on?" I said, a little too harshly.

She sat back a little, but she confided, "I just got here. You're my first table. It's fine. So what's the matter?"

I looked at this girl, unsure. Why should I tell her anything? I didn't know her. I was in a cafe, all alone, and someone was trying to talk to me? Couldn't she see that I wanted to be alone?

"I kissed my ex-boyfriend," I blurted out, a bit too loudly. Heads turned from the next table over, but they soon lost interest and turned back around.

Mimi raised her eyebrows, surprised at my outburst. She composed herself quickly and said, "Well, do you still have feelings for him?"

I thought about it for a second. "Not really," I said. "He's just like a really close friend."

"Well, does your current boyfriend know?"

I shot her a Look. "My girlfriend doesn't know," I said haughtily.

Her eyebrows went up again. "Oh," she said. "No chance, then."

I shook my head. "No chance."

"Well then, what do you have to worry about?" she said.

"Well, I think he still likes me," I whispered.

Mimi thought about this for a moment. "Does he know you're not accessible?"

"Of course," I said. "I mean, I kind of dumped him... for her."

Mimi twisted her mouth into an awkward o.

"I should get going," I said suddenly, standing up and adjusting my scarf. "I need to go back." I stepped out of the booth, but Mimi hastily grabbed my arm.

"Just one thing, honey... tell the truth. It's a lot easier than covering everything up."

I smiled uneasily and nodded. I didn't know if I would take her advice, but I would at least consider it. I headed out the door in a slightly better mood than when I came in.

It's weird to get advice from a girl with the same name as a dead friend.


	6. Chapter 6

I might not be here – ch.6

I could see Mark sitting on the fire escape as I walked back to the loft.

_Here goes_, I thought.

When I finally made it up to the loft, Joanne was waiting for me. She snatched me the moment I was in the door.

"Where did you go?" she asked immediately.

I shook her hand off my arm. "I was at the Life," I said. My heart was pounding. Should I take Mimi's advice?

"Well, why did you leave?" she continued, crossing her arms.

I faltered. Truth or a lie? I couldn't decide.

"I kissed Mark," I blurted.

I _need_ to stop blurting this out.

Joanne's face was expressionless.

"Go ahead, go into your lawyer mode," I mumbled. "Question me, or something."

Silence. I was afraid to look at her now.

"Why?"

I looked up. Joanne was staring at me, her eyes pleading. A tear rolled down her cheek. I felt a lump in my throat and swallowed it down.

"I don't know," I whispered, taking a step closer and reaching out for her hands. She took them without thought and looked into my eyes. I could read her thoughts. _Don't do this again. Please._

"I won't," I promised. "I know who I belong to." I half-smiled hopefully, and Joanne returned the smile.

"Maureen?"

I looked to my left and my smile melted. I still had to deal with what I'd done to Mark. He looked at me with confusion. I let go of Joanne's hands and faced Mark resolutely.

"I'm sorry, Mark. I don't know what came over me. I shouldn't have—"

"Hey, life is crazy…" he interrupted.

"I really didn't mean to—"

"I know you didn't, Maureen."

"I don't know what—"

"Maureen, stop."

I stopped. Mark took a careful step forward.

"You seem to forget that I was your boyfriend once, Maureen. I know what you're like." He shifted his gaze to Joanne. "The tango Maureen." Joanne giggled suddenly, and then stopped herself when I turned to look at her.

"The tango Maureen? What does that mean?" I demanded. Joanne only shook her head, and I turned to Mark. "What's the tango Maureen?"

Mark smiled and waved his hand dismissively. "The point is, Mo, you act irrationally at times, and I'm used to it. Just… don't get my hopes up next time."

I was feeling more than a little confused, but I caught the meaning behind that. Mark still wasn't over me. I'd have to work on that, somehow. Still, he had a point. I felt sheepish. When would I ever learn self-control?

Mark succumbed to a fit of shivers just then, and I snapped back into the real world. Mark was still depressed and going through withdrawal, regardless of his current nonchalant façade.

"Mark, come sit down," said Joanne. She had recovered from her mysterious giggling fit and gotten serious again. She led him to the couch and handed him a blanket.

"Mark, you are under surveillance as of this moment, do you understand?" she said, looking him straight in the eyes. I smiled. She was using her lawyer voice.

"Surveillance?" Mark eyed her warily.

Joanne reached into her pocket and pulled out the little baggie. Mark's eyes widened with desire. She quickly put it back.

"Yes, Mark, surveillance. We're here, and we're your friends. We're not going to let you do this to yourself," Joanne continued.

"Do you have any more?" I piped in. "We've gotta get rid of it."

Joanne nodded. "All of it," she added.

Mark looked down. "That's all I have," he muttered, but Joanne laughed.

"Oh, no, no, Mark, that's not gonna cut it. I'm a lawyer, remember? Mark, look – Mark, pay attention. You're lying." Mark's head snapped up. "Where is it, Mark?"

Mark was silent.

I felt a rush of anger, the same feeling as when I had slapped him earlier. I wanted to slap him again, but instead, I stormed into his bedroom and started tearing the room apart – loudly.

"Maureen, what in the world are you _doing_ in there?" called Joanne. I pulled open a drawer and started tossing clothes all over the room.

"Looking for his drugs!" I shouted back. "If he's not gonna tell, I'm gonna find them!" I pulled open another drawer. Socks. One of them had a bag in it.

"One more in here, Mark!" I hollered. "Will I find any more?" I heard urgent whispers from the main room. I pulled open another drawer.

"He says that's it!" called Joanne. "He says there was one in his socks and one in a book, he didn't have anymore!"

I slammed the drawers shut and came back to the main room. Mark was retching into a bucket on the couch. Joanne turned from him to me and held out her hand. I gave her the bag, which she stuffed in her pocket with the other and turned back to Mark. He was leaning over the bucket, wheezing, his face wet with tears. I knelt down with Joanne, and we both looked at him. Joanne reached for the bucket. He nodded, and she took it from him and put it on the floor behind us. Mark clutched his throat and leaned back, still wheezing loudly. None of us spoke for a minute. Mark closed his eyes.

"You're going to have to do it," said Joanne calmly.

"Do what?" Mark whispered.

"Flush them," I said. "The drugs. They have to go."

Mark shook his head slowly. "I can't… I can't…"

"Yes, you _can_, Mark," I said. He continued to shake his head. "You _can_. It's hard, it will be hard, but you _have_ to do it."

"We can't let you be like this," Joanne added, taking his hand. He pulled it out of her grasp and grabbed his head, shaking it more violently. Joanne raised her voice. "We can't do it for you, Mark. You have to do this yourself. You can do it. Roger did it, Mark, and so can you!" A high-pitched moan escaped from Mark's lips, and I suddenly felt a pang of grief for Roger. I remembered being around when Roger was going through this. Mark had been so strong then. He had helped Roger through it all—through April's suicide, through the fear of being HIV positive, through the withdrawal, through his slow death. My eyes welled up with tears and I began to cry.

"Mark, I know you can do this," I said through the tears. "Joanne's right. You were so strong for Roger, through everything, you helped him. We're here for you, okay? We'll help you, we'll… we'll be strong for you. We are going to help you through this, but you _have_ to make a choice!"

Mark was breathing much too hard now. He wheezed quickly, his chest heaving, real tears of grief and pain rolling down his cheeks. I could see him trying to form words, but nothing came out. He tried again.

"Can't… can't… breathe…" he choked. "H… h…"

"Maureen, he's hyperventilating," Joanne said in alarm. My stomach flipped.

"What do you do when someone hyperventilates?" I cried.

"I don't know!" Joanne said. "Um… paper bag! We don't have any! Um, Mark, listen to me, breathe, breathe, okay? Can you breathe?" Mark didn't reply; he just kept shaking his head, now clutching his chest.

"Mark! Calm down! Breathe!" I shrieked.

He passed out.

Joanne and I stared at him, scared out of our wits. His breathing slowed, though he was still wheezing, just gentler now. I looked at Joanne.

"Maybe… we should've waited before taking that step," she said thoughtfully. "We've really caused him enough stress…"

"Should we get rid of it for him…?" I suggested, but Joanne shook her head.

"I really think he needs to do it himself. How is he supposed to do this if we're trying to do it for him?" she said.

"I guess so…" I stood up and leaned over Mark, stroking his hair gently. Then I turned to face Joanne.

"So, now that we have a minute… what's this 'tango Maureen'?"


End file.
